Trials of Knighthood: The Lost Form
by Trinity Dragon
Summary: 3400 years before the events of The Phantom Menace, a little known branch of the Jedi thrives on a small world in the Outer Rim. As a plot unfolds to eliminate the Order of St. Elsa, it is left to one young padawan and his two companions to save them all... or die trying. OC's
1. Chapter 1

Star Wars

Trials of Knighthood: The Lost Form

Chapter I

CLTHHH-clank. CLTHHH-clank. Don Mi-ow stared helplessly at the ceiling as he listened to the familial rattling of Master Bit's nightly patrols. The compound was not large, and only about twenty padawans and younglings resided in the Praxum in addition to the few Knights and Masters who taught them. Master Bit had selected each one of them as he traversed the galaxy—each student came from different circumstances.

Master Bit had selected him, like he had all the other fifty or so students for something that the old droid-encased Master called "uniquely him." What it was, the young human could scarcely comprehend.

He continued staring--that being the only thing he could do at the moment. The rock above him looked like granite, much the same as the walls and floor, though the floor was polished regularly. The hall to his left was alight with torches instead, maintaining the feel of an ancient monastery, and every now and again Don heard old-style wooden bedposts creak and scratch as another body shifted in its sleep.

According to Master Bit, the lack of high technology provided the mind the opportunity to slow down and take stock of life--in other words, meditation. The abolition of technology extended to more than just lights, however. In his studies, Don used a bound pad of flimsy, an inkpot and a quill pulled from a native fowl. The kitchen was much the same, the students cooking their own meals over outdated appliances--some of which looked older than the Headmaster. Some of them were probably cousins.

Meditation, though, was a powerful tool to steady the mind. Don tried to regulate his breathing, repeating the Jedi code to himself in an attempt to fall asleep. _In, out. There is no passion, there is serenity. _He took another deep inhalation and held it for a moment before breathing again._ There is no chaos, there is harmony._ He sucked in another breath and realized it was not working. _I should try the meditation room_. Then again, that room had a history in itself, not exactly ideal for meditation. But the lingering energy was that of the Light, an aura of salvation that a trained mind could use to enhance meditation.

It stemmed from the incident that had lead to the founding of the Praxum--an encounter with a baron possessed of a mind-controlling substance, back when Master Bit was only a padawan with the late Master Coram Deo and his counterpart Master Nokturne. The Dantooine council had sent the three as mediators to Mynersha, as Don recalled. But that was only the surface; as they began their investigation, stranger and stranger happenings began to interfere until all of Hades seemed to have broke loose.

The incident had culminated in an attack against the three Jedi by hordes of the baron's depraved monsters--formerly sentient beings of whom the ooze possessed.

This was not helping, Don realized with a pang of irritation. He sighed heavily and shifted in his bed. _Calm down,_ he told himself. What was it Master Coram was always quoted as saying? _Where's my grenade?_ Don smiled--it was a running joke whenever the instructors asked about Master Coram's philosophical views. A grenade would do where a lightsaber would get in the way.

But no, it was to keep back from the fighting until the opportunity presented itself. The dead Cathar had been a master of ranged weaponry, so the students were told. His style reflected knowledge of battle combined with use of heavy weapons and the Force that made the tradition seem nonsensical to use by itself. Thus, the Coram Deo tradition had the subtle advantage keeping the enemy at a distance whilst assessing the field for the most strategic of openings. It was a Force form that required a calm mind and hours of meditation to master. It allowed a certain mode of telepathy that gave an ally the ability to see the battle from another angle. Often, a change in perspective could afford the opportunity to end a confrontation quickly and with minimal bloodshed.

However, like every other tradition, it required patience--much like waiting for sleep to come to the body. Don needed activity, something to tire his body down--anything to work out the tensions that kept him awake. Training purged the body of impurities, and left one exhausted afterward. Moreover, he could always use the practice.

Hid dull, gray uniform hung from the bedpost and dragged on the floor. It consisted of a moderately loose robe and a belt. The belt itself was standard issue, available at the market on Mynersha, just above the Praxum. His contained several stun grenades, a small grappling hook and cable dispenser, and his lightsaber.

The robe hung loosely over the human's wiry frame, much as the fabric was designed to do. A cursory inspection of himself revealed that his dirty head of brown hair was unkempt and spiked comically to the left, and that he was in need of a shave. There was no sense, he supposed in trying to make himself look presentable--if he got caught it would be the fate either way. Satisfied that he was not violating any conduct codes, he snapped his belt into place with only the faintest of clicks.

Don stalked out of the barracks and down the corridor to the left. The torchlight was bright by comparison to the gloom of the barracks. The room he sought was located some distance away on the other side of the Praxum's grounds. For the Headmaster to catch you during transit was an hour of lecturing about maintaining the Order's discipline and adherence to the rules set forth by its founding Jedi.

Of course, this was nowhere near the first time that Don had spirited himself to the training hall, and his mastery of stealth was one of his gifts that had required years of practice. The lecture was one of his favorites, if only because it produced in him fond memories of stories from his childhood. Shortly after the admonition that Master Bit was obligated to afford to his students, he would put them to bed and to lull them to sleep, tell them the story of the founding of the Order of Saint Elsa.

During their history lessons, the story was dry and detached of all humor and wit; in deed, it fell into a dreadful monotony that indiscriminately encompassed all of galactic history. But that was only the broadest of the schooling Don and his fellows had endured. The other Masters--about five of them in total--had each of them a specialized field of study in addition to different Force forms and combat styles. It was classical education in the fashion of a boarding school for the extraordinarily gifted.

Master Bit taught some on the application of language for diffusing hostile situations--a public relations class by any other name. It was reputed (with some skepticism on the part of the newest Knights to arise from the Order) that it was actually Master Deo and not Bit Hantoff who served in that original capacity. Though as to the truth of the rumor, no one but the old Masters themselves would know. And only Bit was around these days. But, on some days, during Master Bit's classes, they would visit the small, compressed archives and begin digging through stacks of holo-discs and datapads (the only true technology aside from the lightsaber allowed in the halls of the Praxum) in order to gain some modicum of understanding of the history of the Republic's outer worlds. Each student would present his findings and Master Bit judged them according to the level of comprehension, and the amount of work put in.

But as far as the padawan was concerned, his youngling days were ancient history. His focus now was training, though he was still required to show an efficient amount of knowledge in all of the required spheres of knowledge. During training, instructing Jedi often subjected his or her pupils to different scenarios that required some application of an obscure matter of precedence--for instance, an ancient murder case reported to the Dantooine academy.

_Ironic that I should think of that case,_ Don thought offhandedly. The young Jedi in question was in training himself and that case had been a part of _his_ training. And then there was the story of Mynersha-- _Always coming back to that…_ he shook his head, turning another corner. The night was still young, he knew, and he would tire himself out soon enough and be back to sleep until revelry the next morn.

The passage Don found himself in currently was narrow and low, lit only by two torches at either end of the tunnel. It was well trodden, though, and led to the great expanse of the training hall. His steps quickened, though still soft, and he reached his destination without incident. The old wooden door was unlocked and groaned as he pushed it open. He winced, hearing the hinges screech and hoped that no one had heard, and then closed the door once again as silently as he could manage.

Here, too, torches lit the room in a warm glow that bordered on cozy. In the front of the cavern was a small concave area partitioned off by thick curtains of dark fabric, drawn back when not in use. Preceding that was a small raised slab of rock, a bench that had a decidedly altar-esque feel to it. Both were there for the sole purpose of meditation, those preferring a kneeling posture over the traditional form taking to the alter.

Wooden benches and small alcoves filled with desks of the same material surrounded the practice area on all sides--each partitioned with the same fabric used in the main meditation area. Sometimes a padawan might be found studying there with an instructor close behind him, observing over the padawan's shoulder. Now, however, the students had left the entire expanse deserted; only Don remained to enjoy the company of whatever routine he decided to practice.

The comfortingly familiar snap-hiss of the human's lightsaber echoed off the far wall and returned like a happy pet to its owner. Don welcomed the sound and the grip of his short, bluish blade in his hand. He took a deep breath and centered himself, beginning with the basic forms taught to all novices. He had mastered those years ago, and the swift, graceful movements made his robe bellow behind him with a thin _shwoosh_ through the air. He placed one hand just above the hilt, hovering above the shimmering, hot energy of his saber and whirled it about, softly humming to the oddly melodic tune produced by the blade.

Sometimes he felt as if it were alive, or as if it was an extension of his arms. But that was only when he graced the hall with the deft moves and rhythms that any child could master. Other times--Don took wide leap to land on the other side of the practice area--other times he stepped to lightly and lost his momentum. He had crashed many times before in similar bounds. This instance would be no different. The thoughts of previous failings had broken Don's concentration and he lost the step needed to keep him from careening into one of the wooden benches and the alcove behind it.

His lightsaber flew from his hands and shut off, clattering loudly against the granite floor and reverberating in the depth of the hall. It paled, however, in comparison with noise attributed to Don when he crashed, crushing the bench slamming head first into the alcove, lamp and torch clattering and going out as they hit the floor beside him.

The ricocheting sound waves continued for several moments and then died, leaving Don feeling horribly self-conscious and embarrassed by the newest sonic impression his ears received. It was the sound of clapping, a single pair of hands, like metal banging against metal. It stopped and a single large three-fingered claw offered itself to the young human for support.

"Master Hantoff…" Don stammered, his mouth suddenly dry. He took the hand, not daring refuse the Headmaster. "I--I--I'm…" _I'm in so much trouble_, he finished in his mind. The expression, as always, on Master Bit's face was disconcertingly expressionless. He, like every one of his predecessors, had never learned to read the droid's face.

"A most impressive collision, young padawan," Bit said, his vocabulator giving a metallic ring to his voice. The tone was not anger, nor was it disappointment at the mistake made. It was almost curious, Don decided, a hint of surprise showing on his face. Usually the Headmaster would be beginning his lecture at this point.

"Yes, Master," Don said, bowing slightly. "I apologize. I should not have been out this…" Bit cut him off with a wave of one of his arms, the other three in various positions of comfort.

Something in the way he was acting made Don a little more relaxed than he cared to be in front of the only Founder left in the Order. "There isn't any need to apologize. I know why you came here. There is no shame in that." His postured made the padawan think that maybe Master Bit was smiling at him, possibly mischievously, as if he had been guilty of the same transgression before. "We should all be so fortunate to be as dedicated to training as you," Bit continued.

"Thank you, Master," Don replied. Where was the lecture, he wondered. The Master's tone was so casual that it left him wary. But he could not very well leave without being dismissed. He tried to apologize again and slip away to the barracks, but was once again quieted.

"Now tell me, padawan--why are you having trouble sleeping?" Was that it. Obviously, he the nightly patrols had caught him during numerous attempts at sneaking out of the dormitories. "I've watched you in here training many times," the master confirmed his suspicions. "We have tried to increase your physical training as much as we deemed you were ready for, in hopes that the tax on your body would help you rest better. But it seems that that is not the reason why you come here."

Bit motioned for him to take a seat on an undamaged bench. Don did so and felt much more relieved when the Master brought for himself a chair from an alcove and sat before him. "Why are you having trouble sleeping, Don Mi-ow?"

He knew that the Headmaster would know if he were lying or not. So, he decided, it was his unhappy duty to report the truth. "It's my training, Master," he said, voice shaking slightly. "I think there is something wrong with me." And it was true, from his point of view. For years now, he had a feeling that he was deficient in almost all areas of his training, save some of the academic endeavors. His lack of skill with a lightsaber was an oftentimes-painful testament to this.

He had first noticed as a youngling, about twelve years old, that he had trouble with the most basic Force techniques. Moving a simple object, a rubber ball, had taking all of his concentration and will to do. It had only moved a fraction of what others had done. Meditation had come difficultly as well, and he found it hard to clear his mind to recite the mantras and litanies.

When it had come time for the more advanced forms and styles, he had failed utterly. The Headmaster's tradition of saber combat had made a fool of him, and the more traditional forms had also found him lacking severely. Thus, only one school was suited to him and even that he found extraordinarily complicated. The application of projecting his vision and view of the world to other sentient beings was something he was unable to achieve; even with the aid of his instructor, the visions were blurry, vague and irresolute. Throughout his training, Don had formed the opinion of himself that he had almost no connection to the Force, if any at all. And zero potential for it improvement

Don snapped his back to the world around him once more, straining to make sense of Master Bit's words. He had begun to doze, the crash he sustained knocking fatigue into his body. He stifled a yawn and nodded. Once again, he was unable to keep his mind clear and failed to understand Master Hantoff's words.

Master Bit must have noticed, for he had a gift for such perception, and abruptly stood. He motioned for Don to stand as well. No argument issued from the human and he did so, hoping that he would be dismissed having missed a good hour of rest. Happily, his hopes were fulfilled, but not without an admonition--one which, in all reality Don had coming--before escorting him back to the barracks.

Don found his bunk and slid beneath the thick sheets, resting his head. A quiet moan emanated from the bed beside him, then the form shifted and resumed its nasal fortes. He sighed and watched as the Headmaster slid the barrack's door closed, then dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

Long lines of text stared grimly up at him from the piece of flimsy before him. In the entire library of the Order, there was only one small case of actual books. These contained a detailed record of the Order, and Don Mi-ow examined them closely. He had been looking for something, but as the day wore on (in solitude for his transgression the night before), he had turned to reading them instead, forgetting what he originally set out to discover.

Don sighed and looked across the table. His counterpart also set himself to studying, but the more contemporary records were of more secular history rather than the Order's chronicles. His red skin and thick horns gave the Iktotchi a menacing glare, but the thick built sentient only looked back at Don and sighed in the same exasperation.

The human decided to break the quiet tension that had overcame them during their rummaging. He gathered up his notes and shuffled them about loudly before slapping them down on the table with resounding _thud_, drawing a speculative glance from his cohort, Meed Kartol. "You were snoring again last night," he said plaintively. That ought to produce some response, he decided, having become tired of silence.

"You didn't sleep again," Meed asked him. Expression on the Iktotchi's face, too, was hard to read. Meed tended not to show much emotion, and kept a tight lid on his personal affairs. Nevertheless, his tone usually betrayed some hint at the goings on in his mind.

Don really did not want to run the subject of his insomnia into the granite floor again. "Do I ever?" he asked, trying to remain collected. He and Meed had met as younglings, grown to be fast friends and still retained that friendship. The problem with the red-skinned sapient was that if he was asking, he could manipulate the conversation to go anywhere he wanted--a natural phenomenon, the human guessed recalling rumors. Their camaraderie had seen to that, though.

"No," came the answer. "And I didn't snore either." Maybe the other would take mercy on Don today and let him be. But no, Meed would never do that. It was not in his nature, nor could Don blame him. "You went to the training hall again?"

The human nodded. "I probably woke the east wing again, too." Don shook his head ruefully and rubbed at the painful bruise that had formed on his upper arm. "I still can't seem to get it right. What's worse, Master Hantoff caught me." The Iktotchi's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "I can't remember if he lectured me or not--I was so tired afterward, though."

Meed glanced down at the pile of holodisks he was sifting through and brushed them aside, leaning forward. "Is that why he wanted us to come here? Searching through the entire library for a secret known only to the Dantooine council and Master Bit?"

Suddenly Don gasped, remembering what he had been looking for. The pile of books next to him toppled and spilled to the floor as he unsheathed a piece of parchment and scanned over it.

"What?" Meed questioned, taken aback.

"I think I found it," Don said, a curious mix of excitement and relief flooding from his mouth. "Master Bit asked us to see if we could find any clues as to why Master Nokturne left the Order, remember?" He pulled another book from the pile and flipped open to a page a third of the way through it. "There were rumors of a disagreement between him and Master Bit about something. I'm wondering if that wasn't the reason why he left."

Yes, that was most definitely a possibility. The assignment about Master Nokturne had come seemingly unexpectedly to Meed and Don, yet there was urgency in the commission that bode very badly for anyone involved. No one had heard anything about Master Nokturne in almost a century, and his style of combat had been banned from the Praxum, by decree of the Dantooine council, supported only half-heartedly be the Headmaster. But why had the council chosen to exile him?

Certainly, Master Bit knew this. So why, then, would he ask the two padawans a question to which he already had the answer. It was an exercise in futility--unless there was an ulterior motive. Don leaned back in his chair, rubbing the stubby mess still growing from his chin. "Is it possible," he wondered aloud, "that Master Nokturne was exiled for other reasons than what we see here?" He paused, giving an inquisitive look to Meed, who only stared back and shrugged mildly--an oddly human expression for an alien.

_Lovely,_ thought Don. He wished he could read minds, some time, and then promptly dismissed that. While having a minimal connection to the force, he had a wonderful ability to recognize temptation. He breathed in loudly and deeply, trying to calm his mind and shield it from a growing migraine. The records were incomplete, like the pages had never existed. "What about the holodiscs? What was the last record of Master Nokturne being off world?"

Meed scanned the holodiscs and datapads dutifully for several minutes. Meanwhile, Don's head continued to try to expand and explode as he scanned through the books once more. The gaps were staggering--that there should be only one reference to Nokturne leaving the Order, and that in itself was only a footnote added after the fact. This was to be a short investigation, Don decided.

"There is no record of where he would have gone," Meed announced suddenly. "It looks as if you are right, my friend. The records here are as incomplete as yours, and much more difficult to erase entirely."

"One of the famed Jedi secrets," the human nodded. "Someone knows something and we aren't being told." Yes, the secrets that had been stockpiled and offered to the Force for annihilation included this latest exploration into the realms of the past. Master Bit would surely want to hear about it, of course; and that hearing would include a hand written report.

He pulled a pen and inkpot from a drawer in the table, as well as a few sheets of flimsy and began his work. Meed, seeing that this was a case-closed gesture, agreed and set to work on his own work.

_Fin_


	2. Chapter 2

Star Wars

Trials of Knighthood: The Lost Form

Chapter II

Turned at an angle from the main passage was a not-oft-traversed, nondescript corridor—typically left alone by most students. A little ways down that hall was a very dull door on two rusted hinges that squeaked when it opened. The door was marked in unexceptional letters, "Office," and the only hints to its true nature were the equally plain words "Authorized Personnel Only."

As a matter of doctrine, no one entered the office of the Headmaster without his invitation, lest he never be heard from again. The Headmaster, left to his own devices, rarely ever extended an invitation to other faculty, the students, and certainly not Don. Rumors circulated that the Headmaster stashed his personal memorabilia away in a secret vault hidden cunningly somewhere within the office. The unlikelihood of this, though, never penetrated the masterminds of these rumors. The vast nature of the collection incited wild fantasy and daydreaming; in the times between classes and training, the padawans on Mynersha favored speculation as to the relics, which also, coincidentally, were a thing of legend.

The other masters were perplexed that Master Bit would allow the propagation of such myths. Indeed, if they knew that it was the he who began the rumors, they might have passed out. His stories of adventures long past and of the founding of the Order put many minds to work postulating on the contents of his secret vault. The list, ever changing and always more fantastic with each recitation, included time capsules, cryogenically frozen military officers, stuffed vornskrs, crystals of exceptional rarity, and other, much stranger, artifacts.

The reality of it, Don found, was askew. As the Headmaster spoke, the young human found himself mesmerized by the unimaginable ordinariness of the little room. There were, of course, signs of an extraordinary life, a long time ago. Not a time capsule by any means, but in the corner sat a bowl marked "Dees'l" in bold letters and a faintly glittering gem sat discreetly on a shelf next to a model spacecraft.

"…I wanted your opinion on the matter, padawan…"

Don blinked, shook his head. "I'm sorry, master. What was that?"

Bit scooped up a bundle of papers and straightened them out. "I have read through Meed's report on the holonet records of our Order, and I've read through your report. You both come to the conclusion that something is amiss." He set the papers down again and leaned forward, electronic eyes unblinking at the human.

"I haven't read through Meed's report yet, master," Don told him, unsure as to where the conversation was headed. "It was obvious in the Order's records, though, that information was missing. Whoever took the missing pages was very thorough, and very clean." What bothered Meed, though the other would never admit it, was the missing information. Public records were near impossible to dispose of as completely as they had been. It should have bothered Don more than it did. But what put him out was the question of who deleted that information.

Master Bit continued, "I have the sense that you are withholding something." It jarred Don to think that he was so easy to read. "There is a great deal more here than my optical sensors indicate, padawan. I want to hear your opinion on the matter."

Admittedly, Don felt the same way. This assignment was a great deal more weighted than he had previously thought. If the Headmaster, being far stronger in the Force than he was, sensed something amiss, than Don could only imagine what might be lurking in the shadows—what the _Headmaster_ might be hiding…

That was the answer he had been seeking. The records regarding Master Nokturne would have contained his whereabouts, previous assignments, and physical description. Anyone with enough patience could find him, so long as the records remained intact. It would only be logical, then, that whoever disposed of the missing information was trying to protect Master Nokturne…

"Don, are you paying attention?"

"Huh—Oh! Yes, master…" What were they discussing again? The reports from him and Meed, yes, but master Bit had said something about there being more to the matter. That was it. "I apologize, master. I was gathering my thoughts and I became distracted."

The Headmaster leaned back to his prior position. "Yes, I had noticed," he replied. "But as to my question, padawan: What did you not include in your conclusions?" How would he phrase it? Master Bit would sense any hesitance on his part, making a cautious approach sound more like he was unsure than anything.

"I think—uh—master… I think you might have taken the pages." Don winced as he heard himself blurt it out. "I—I'm sure you had good reasoning behind it, master! But what did you need to protect him from?" He was not sure of it, but the human thought he could sense an air of thoughtfulness, and something else. He looked carefully at the droid master, trying to discern any possible hint as to emotion Master Bit was trying to convey.

"You have discerned incorrectly, padawan," Master Bit said slowly as if coming to his own realization.

Did the Headmaster not know as much as Don had supposed? Then it was an actual investigation and not just a test of his deductive prowess. That also meant that someone had successfully infiltrated the praxeum and its remote facilities… and the public offices of Mynersha's administration.

"Who could have broken in, Master?" Don asked, suddenly flooded with concern. Mynersha had always been safe as far as he knew. Not since the founding of the Order of Saint Elsa had there been even the rumor of a threat to the Order.

"Calm yourself, padawan," Bit reassured him, sensing the tide rising within the human. "Our order is as safe as it has always been…"

Don breathed, and counted to ten, waiting for his heart rate to even out again. Of course Mynersha was safe. It was remote, on the outer rim of the galaxy and barely noticeable in the backdrop of galactic commerce and politics for the past hundred years. So the padawan was calm again, and tried to focus on the authority in front of him.

"Go now, Don, and confer with Meed. Meditate and we will discuss this later…"

"But Master Bit, shouldn't we continue our…." Bit waved him off dismissively. He must have already figured out who had done the deed. For all his work, Don had been useless to help in the investigation. "Very well, sir." With that, Don stood and bowed, and turned to leave.

The snap-hiss of light sabers echoed in the training hall. Two dull gray balls hung in the center of the room, surrounded by students and their silvery blades, ready to do battle with the multi-faceted remote. In all, the ten of them were rather annoyed with the repeat of this particular exercise, as it tended to sting.

"Remember, the object is not deflection in this exercise," master Drid spoke. "At least not for everyone." He was a young man compared to the rest of the faculty, with a swath of blond hair and stubble adorning his head like a bubble. He spoke confidently to his students and encouraged the same mannerism in all his students as well; often he would couple his speech with a flare of drama, as he did now, arching a brow at Don.

Don, however, found it disconcerting, and tried not to focus on Drid. Instead, he concentrated on the remote and his exercise partner, Meed. The goal, as he understood it was not for him to deflect stun shots from the remote, but to attempt to anticipate and warn Meed of impending danger. This, while maintaining a level of alertness enough to keep from being shot himself, made Don acutely aware of his weak connection to the Force.

_Just concentrate on the ball_, he told himself, and steadied his breathing. _Eyes closed, mind open…_

The first shot came streaming from the remote toward one of the other students. She danced out of the way and the bolt hit the granite wall behind her partner with a sizzle. Another shot came from the second remote, this time heading in Meed's direction. _Left._ Half a second before, the Iktochi native swirled left and bounced the bolt off his blade back toward the remote. _Right, down, jump…_ as three more seared the air.

He was doing well today, Don decided. Not one blast had hit him or Meed thus far, and he had even succeeded (a rare occasion) in deflecting one bolt away from himself. This would go on for several more minutes before their instructor called a halt to the assault on his students. "Up, down, left, right, jump, down again, and try not to singe your uniform, Don!"

_Prrrrrrrrp!_

Don yelped as a stray shot stung his arm, and then went numb there as his light saber fell from his fingers and shut off. His arm would be limp for an hour, now, and once again he would endure the well-meaning laughter and criticism from his peers and instructor. He looked over at Master Drid, who stared back with an arched brow and hit a button on the remote's controller.

"That's enough for now. You all did well today," he said, genuinely enthused. "But don't just focus on the remotes or your partner. Expand your horizon to every living creature within the room." He walked over to Don and picked at the human's uniform, pointing out a small black stain on the dullish blue fabric. "That's where Don made his mistake," and he added to him privately, "though you are improving."

"Yes, master. I'll continue practicing."

Drid nodded and checked the chronometer above the door. "That's all for today's lesson," he said. "Go get cleaned up and don't be late for dinner. East dorm is cooking tonight."

Don should have been excited. Out of the three small dorms in the compound, North, South and East, East was undoubtedly the best group of chefs on Mynersha, save for the resort cooks in the hotels above them. Even with their antiquated equipment, they never ceased to amaze their fellows. Even wading through the semi-crowded corridors leading to the commons and cafeteria could not dampen the spirits of the students, who knew they were in for their day's earned reward.

The ever-present scent emanating from the kitchen seemed to draw the praxeum's compliment forward, enticing them with a smell so rich and palpable, Don might have cut through it with his light saber. The young man followed Meed, shuffling politely into the cafeteria, bowing in greeting to the praxeum's three masters as he and his Iktochi roommate padded past them and into the line of waiting students.

Yet in all the bustling excitement over the midday meal, Don still felt ponderous. Something niggled at the back of his mind. A lingering doubt, he supposed it was, and a sense that something was going to happen to mar his mealtime revelry. He picked up a tray and plate and allowed the server to heap sustenance upon it.

Don hardly noticed. Since the night the Headmaster had caught him in the training hall, and the subsequent assignment—and his utter failure to discover the perpetrator of the break-in—he had only discussed it with Meed this one time.

That conversation was short-lived, consisting of the few basic questions and a short run-down of each others' reports. Surprisingly, his roommate had uncovered nothing on his own and had therefore not dared to make any accusations or postulations. Only a hint of a smile touched his lips as Don admitted to accusing Master Bit.

"How did the Headmaster react, then?" he asked, taking a seat at one of the many benched tables.

"He might have laughed," Don replied, scratching his head, then sitting down across from Meed. The Headmaster had not reacted at all, actually. Don sighed and wiped his brow, still damp from the training room exertions. "He probably knew what I was going to say… I was wrong, of course. But I got the sense that Master Bit realized the answer on his own."

Don poked at a slice of meat distractedly.

Meed swallowed. "How did you gather that?"

"The look in his eyes, I suppose," Don said, realizing how absurd it sounded. It was strange that a droid could convey so much emotion without facial expression. Though it was common knowledge that he was not actually a droid—merely encased in one. The Headmaster had probably become an expert on conveying such things to his organic counterparts.

He wondered if Masters Nokturne or Deo had ever had the same experience way back when. _Wait? Master Nokturne…_

"The archives were completely erased on the topic of Master Nokturne," Don said, suddenly aware of another possibility. "And as far as you could gather, Mynersha's public records had been tampered with as well?"

Meed nodded. "That's right. Nothing in the public records alluded to him in any capacity. Why?" Don, one of the few people who could read Meed's stony visage, could read him now. The red-skinned alien's interest was piqued.

"We weren't thorough enough."

"Just wait a standard minute. We went through the archives high and low for hours on end. There was nothing."

Don smiled for the first time in days and waggled his finger at Meed. There was one place left to check and it seemed that even Master Bit had forgotten about it. "The private archives in the Administration Building. Master Bit didn't have us check them, nor did we think of it until just now. And the security is so tight there that Master Bit can't get in without an escort."

Meed shook his head. "Our security is just as tight. Master Bit patrols the grounds each night with the other masters. Master Drid locks the outer doors himself."

"But a Jedi Master, familiar with the grounds and security procedures could get in like a worm into pudding." How had Don missed it? How had Meed missed it, with his poking and prodding into every facet of the assignment? "Master Nokturne erased the records himself. And without proper clearance, there would have been no way to get inside the Admin Building without leaving tell-tale clues as to who did it."

Meed looked thoughtful. Don was sure that he was contemplating their next course of action, though it seemed rather simple to the human. They should report it to Master Bit as soon as time allowed. Don frowned. Time would not allow for several more hours. He, like Meed, had several classes yet to attend.

The young man sighed and began to concern himself with the task at hand. There would be very little time, indeed, to speak to the Headmaster. Maybe, however, he could catch the Headmaster in passing and mention it. He glanced over to the Masters' table where sat the instructors and found Master Bit watching him with what Don would have called a curious look in his electronic eyes.

Not often did the droid ever interrupt his presiding over the meal. Thus, Don was confused when Bit beckoned him over to his table. Indeed, the unusualness of the situation was not lost on Meed, as his typically controlled visage broke into a contortion that Don had not seen before on the Iktochi's face: confusion.

Both of them shoveled down their plates in uncharacteristic fashion and dropped them off for the kitchen crew before making their way toward the Masters' table in the back corner of the dining hall. Each of them bowed low in turn to their instructors and then turned questioningly to the Headmaster.

"I have given it some amount of thought," Bit began, somehow easily heard over the din of dozens of students. "As I know you have only just now come to the same conclusion as I have, you are instructed to take the day and investigate the Administration Office's private records. Sift through them thoroughly, pertaining to our Order and Master Nokturne."

The two padawans looked at each other nonplussed. _Now how did he come by that? _Don thought to himself, mentally scratching his head. _The Headmaster must have exceptional hearing. Especially over all this,_ and he had the feeling that the entire commons was packed shoulder to shoulder.

"Go, now. Master Drid has already made the proper arrangements," Bit told them. The two students nodded and bowed once more before shuffling off in the direction of the south dormitory, talking between them of the mountains of holo-disks they would shortly be sifting through.

_Fin_


	3. Chapter 3

Star Wars

Trials of Knighthood: The Lost Form

Chapter III

It was the must that really threw Don's concentration off kilter. Even in the years of ever advancing technology, and data pads almost as thin as paper, a library still smelled like a library. No one had yet to figure a way to remove the ancient, musty and damp smell that accompanied the accumulation of a world's history. Not that it was unpleasant. The smell of history was quite comforting to the one searching through it.

In a way, thought Don, it was comforting to know that some things remained the same despite the constant of change. Up would always be up, down would always be down, and, despite feeling agonizingly slow, time always marched forward at the same rate. It was this last fact that prompted him to look up at the library's chronometer once more.

He and Meed had been searching for hours now, through the Administration Building's records department to no avail. Requisition forms from the praxeum, expense reports, climatology data, and customs reports gave them no clue whatever to the lost Nokturne's whereabouts. The pilot logs were next on the list, and Meed had already begun searching through them. Of course, they had skipped everything after the disappearance of the Elsan Master. But it was still going to be a long ordeal to search the remaining files.

Don sighed as he replaced a data pad and pulled another. "Maybe this one will be the lucky one," he suggested to Meed, smirking. The alien looked up at him, nodding as if to say, probably, and went back to reading.

The pad lit up in Don's hands, the display fantastically boring. Just another log entry full of destinations, this one an envoy from the Order to Nar Shadda, then off to Dantooine for a visit to the academy there. Well that was interesting. There was no return date to Mynersha. In fact, Mynersha was not on the flight plan at all.

"Meed?" Don queried, breaking the red-skinned alien's concentration. "Do me a favor and cross reference flight thirteen eighty-nine from this date, to the hanger's inventory." He handed the pad to Meed. "Which ships were returned, and which one never came back."

"Do you have a hunch?" Meed asked, a subtle, knowing glint in his eyes.

"Yes. There's no return date listed on that flight plan."

"And it turns out that the ship was only a small freighter."

It was the kind that could be operated by a single crewmember. More to the point, the listed owner of the freighter was not the Order of Saint Elsa, but to Master Bit Hantoff, who was noted as being planet-side while the ship was in use. This was the ray of hope that they had been searching for, the proverbial needle in the haystack that Master Bit had sent them searching for.

Don mouthed a quick thank-you for the Headmaster. Somehow, though, the human felt it was a set up and that he and his constituent had just been handed the answer. Just another pointed reminder his own ineptitude, he supposed. No, it was surely just a coincidence and Don was chastising himself for nothing. And yet he and Meed had been instructed to come here only after _they_ made the connection.

The Headmaster had already divined the answer. He must surely have known, for it was impossible, as far as anyone knew, for the droid to forget _anything_ at all, least of all his cohort of several centuries. Of course, how the Headmaster felt about such things was anyone's guess. The sudden surge of interest in both Don's wellbeing and Nokturne's was peculiarity by that respect. There was surely more to it, but the human had other things to focus on, and consequently could not see the bigger picture.

So as he replaced the last of the data pads, he turned to find that Meed was already speaking to their escort. "…and a copy of this document—make that two copies."

_Ah. So Meed is thinking the same thing._ Yes, that was him alright. Always thinking ahead, making sure things would run smoothly down the road. At least they were on the same page, though. One copy for the praxeum, and one copy to be kept with them.

* * *

In the past three hundred years, or so the archives told it, Mynersha's capital city had grown to encompass a fairly large chunk of the island and its surrounding waters. In point of fact, when the Jedi had first arrived, the now sprawling sky scrapers had been but a few hotels and a superfluously large swimming pool. The weary works of galactic commerce had been gracious to Mynersha, sending its poor—yet paradoxically rich—souls to shed the fetters of the working man for days on end of exhausting relaxation.

Don found it, thus, hard to believe that the streets lay completely devoid of intelligent life. That morning, as the two padawans had ambled up the steps of the Administration building, the broad boulevards had been teeming with merchants setting up shop, and the early morning tourists browsing carefully before the real crowds would arrive. But somehow, at the time of day when those thoroughfares should be bursting at the seams with people peddling their priceless bobbles, the avenue was empty.

Not only was it empty of people, Don suddenly realized, but of all life. Only the sounds of his own breath and distant waves breaking upon the beach reached his ears. He looked at Meed questioningly as he subconsciously put his hand to his lightsaber hilt. His companion, equally wary of the unsettling lack of pedestrians, wore a clearly concerned expression on his normally stony face.

His first steps out onto the open street revealed nothing but the noonday sun, casting no shadows. Don pursed his lips in frustration. Something was wrong, yet neither he nor Meed could sense anyone nearby. The nagging prick of looming danger in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise, and Master Drid had always tried to impress upon his students that they should trust their instincts.

Trust your instincts, he told himself, holding his breath. He closed his eyes and extended his senses as best he could through the Force. Meed's presence glowed heartily to his perception, and something else. A void, it felt like, and his mind conjured an image of a black shadow advancing upon them. A low hum reached his ears.

Turning faster than he thought he could, Don focused all his mental might and reached through the Force, grabbing the hooded figure from the roof above and casting him down to the street below. Suddenly the snap-hiss of lightsabers igniting filled the air with angry buzzing as a trio of shadows leapt from above to surround Don and Meed who had ran to join him.

The first landed, leaping to strike without missing a step. Meed's violet double-blade crackled to life instantly to intercept the attack. The human pulled his lightsaber to his hands and activated it just in time to parry a blow from another crimson-colored blade.

The two blades clashed, sparking and hissing at each other, the other's strength immense and infused with the dark side. Don was not equipped to deal with such a foe, his short blade only meant for the defensive form he practiced. He could only hope to last until help came.

Until then, he told himself and gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath. He shifted his stance, putting weight on his forward leg, preparing a solid defense. The attack came without warning, and blindingly quick. Don sidestepped the first and eluded the second, managing to get behind the shadowy form.

By now he had lost track of Meed, but the other Jedi could handle himself. Don had to concentrate, though, and try to size up his opponent. The thought escaped him, though, as his assailant turned and leapt again. Don brought up his lightsaber again, blocking the incoming blow just in time.

Don raised his other hand, calling on the Force to throw his attacker back. The impact was less than astonishing, managing only to throw the shadowed opponent off balance. Still, the human made the most of the opportunity, throwing a punch with the hilt of his lightsaber and knocking his foe back further.

There the Force-wielder stood, momentarily dazed by the blow. He spit blood, the crimson fluid standing out starkly from the cobbled stone of the central boulevard. Then he launched himself at Don again, energy blade swinging low to cut him at the waist. The low blow caught the Jedi off guard and he swung wildly to deflect. His shorter blade only just succeeded.

The strength of the attacker managed to loosen Don's grip on the weapon and it flew from his hand. He felt the searing heat of the blade as it connected with the base of his blade, knocking it from him.

His mind reeled and suddenly he felt as if everything were moving inexorably toward his demise. Don tried to call it back but his powers failed him and he scrambled away from his now over-advantaged opponent. Don made for the deactivated saber and felt himself grabbed through the Force and thrown prone to the ground. The Jedi tried calling again for his saber, but found it already in the hands of his unnamed aggressor, active and awaiting to betray its owner.

He swallowed hard, unable to think of a way out the predicament. His foe approached slowly now, sure he had Don beaten. The two blades arched toward him like the pinchers of some deadly animal. He closed his eyes, knowing his fate. Once again he felt the scorching heat of an energy beam whiz by his neck, and then nothing.

A dull thump greeted his ears instead, and as he opened his eyes, the slumping body of his attacker lay at his feet with a blaster bolt through his heart. The afternoon sun just peaked over the roof of the neighboring shop, forcing him to shield his eyes as his rescuer approached. The silhouette suggested a humanoid female, shorter than him and light on her feet. Not that he would complain about that. As far as Don was concerned, she was exactly what his situation called for. How she snuck up on a Sith assassin was anyone's guess, though.

Finally she came into full view, and Don found himself pleasantly surprised. She offered her hand, her face expressionless as she glanced between him and the dead body. "I—uh—who was that?"

Don refused her hand and picked himself up, dusting off his tunic and trousers, and reaching down for his lightsaber. Then he took stock of his rescuer. Aside from her skin-color, she was nearly human, well dressed, and the pistol she had discretely holstered was a decidedly expensive make—judging from the gold hue of the grip.

"I don't know," he replied at length, taking a long look at the body. It disturbed him. This was the first corpse he had ever seen. On Mynersha, one rarely ever encountered situations where one's life was at stake. Don took a deep breath, trying to center himself. "We were investigating the archives in the Admin offices and had just finished when they attacked."

The girl took a step back and shook her head. Don felt a rising fear in her, and the shock began to set in. "Who are you? Why did they attack you?" Now confusion began to assert itself, if he read her right. Somehow, he got the sense that she should not have been there, and that she had chanced upon his duel.

She had to know he was a Jedi then. The uniform he wore identified him as an affiliate of his Order to anyone who had been on Mynersha very long. And if the uniform did not identify him, his lightsaber surely did. "My name is Don, and I don't know. Now who are you? And where did you come from?"

"I'm Skepa," she said, "Skepa Chuchi. And I don't know either." How could she not know where she came from? "The last thing I remember," she continued, "I was stepping out of a speeder in front of my hotel. Then I was here, holding a smoking gun." So the girl was a recent arrival—probably the daughter of a diplomat.

Don felt the incredible urge to scratch his head. Nothing she said made any sense. And to add to his quandary, he had completely forgotten about Meed. Don tried to focus, and caught a glimpse of his partner's life-force heading their way. At least he could feel relieved over something. Then he saw the reddish alien turn the corner.

"Meed!" he called, waving him over. "Meet Skepa Chuchi, my life saver." Meed bowed low as he approached. His ever-calm face gave no hint as to any surprise he may have felt. She curtsied and gave him the well-practiced smile of a diplomat.

Yes, she was definitely a politician, Don decided. Master Bit had always warned them to avoid politics. Somehow, Don found her oddly charming though. Of course, that did not surprise him much, as she was trained to be charming, and a disarming smile like hers went a long way toward that.

She nodded as Don introduced her, and then quickly took over the conversation. "Meed, then, is it?" He confirmed his name, and half smiled as only the Iktochi could. "You're both Jedi, then? I'd heard there was an enclave here, but you're certainly not what I expected." She looked at Don, who blushed, embarrassed.

"Have you anywhere to stay," Meed asked her, looking around at the still deserted streets. Only the bodies of their attackers remained, and a few wondering scraps of paper floating on the sea breeze. "We can escort you back to your hotel, if you like."

Skepa opened her mouth to speak, but Don cut her off. "I don't think that's a wise idea. If they," and he indicated the corpse behind him, "somehow got word to their masters that Skepa was involved, she wouldn't be safe at the hotel. We should bring her back with us…" The Pantoran closed her mouth and nodded in agreement, though she did give a sidelong glance at him.

* * *

"I believe you did the right thing," Master Bit had said, much to Don's relief. After his initial admonishment for losing his lightsaber during the duel, Bit had expressed relief for the two padawans' safety. Nothing had gone right about it, Don had thought wearily, realizing only after coming back to the praxeum how sore he was.

Meed had been the one to make Skepa's introduction to the droid master. Upon her first meeting him, even her diplomatic charm had faltered at seeing the over-sized, clunking droid. It had melted away, though, as soon as the Headmaster had spoken. "My sincere thanks to you, Ms. Chuchi," he had said. Don, though hardly awake at the time, had sensed the paternal essence in his voice, and had noticed a distinct change come over his guest.

"Don was kind enough to offer me lodging here," she replied, nodding to him. The Headmaster nodded and bowed slightly to her. Don had figured he would. The Jedi had told his master over that offer, and his reasoning. She would take residence in an unoccupied room of the west wing dormitory. The Headmaster had offered her quarters in the faculty dormitory, access to a private refresher and a larger living space, but she declined. "I was only lucky to be there at the right time."

"We were all fortunate," Master Bit replied. "You are, like us, a servant of the Force. It was by its will that you were present at all." There he looked at the Pantoran quizzically—and once again, Don found himself wondering how an expressionless face could look so puzzled. "What brought you to Mynersha? Alone?"

Skepa blinked, unsure what to say. Don had not realized she was alone, though now it made sense. She could not have been more than seventeen standard years. And just how did she get to Mynersha in the first place? Did she smuggle herself onboard a passenger ship, or use a false identification to book passage? He waited for Skepa's reply.

She stood silent for a moment longer, collecting her thoughts, deception on her lips. "My parents sent me on holiday as a reward for my diligent studies. They even bought me my own ship. Though, they only programmed a few sets of coordinates into the navicomputer."

"I believe you," said the Headmaster. Don felt his jaw drop and his eyebrows rise. He knew that was a lie. Master Bit also had to know. Why did he not confront her? Don glanced at Meed, who had also raised an eye at the Headmaster's bold assertion. Even Skepa showed a hint of surprise. But the Headmaster questioned her no further. "Don, take our guest to her room so she may freshen up. Afterwards, you will report to my office. I wish to know what you discovered in the archives."

"Yes, Headmaster," Don replied, hastening off to the dormitory with Skepa in tow.

Fin


	4. Chapter 4

Star Wars

Trials of Knighthood: The Lost Form

Chapter IV

At the intersection of the three dormitories, there was a small domed courtyard. The space was small, but pleasant. Creeping vines crisscrossed the fountain in the center of the circular area, where light from Mynersha's tropical sun filtered in to create a tranquil place for conversation and study.

At each cardinal direction was a bench, which seated a student or two on soft cushions. Indeed, the space was currently occupied by seven of the older students and in the center, talking to the group was a master who Skepa had not met, but knew as Mirlen Drid.

"Ah," Master Drid smiled as she walked in. "Miss Chuchi. What a pleasant surprise. We were just in the middle of a class discussion." The philosophy of the Force, Don reminded himself. He tended to stay out of conversations of this nature, but enjoyed listening in on them. He had the benefit of being unassuming.

Not like the poor, unwitting Pantoran. Even through her strangely toned skin, it was easy to tell she was blushing, embarrassed to have interrupted the delicate training of her hosts' pupils. "I'm so sorry, master Jedi. I didn't mean to interrupt." She bowed, beginning to back toward the door through which she had come. "I really didn't mean to stumble in on you."

Don almost laughed. As it was, he could hardly keep silent with the flood of amusement he felt. The confident, intelligent Skepa who had saved his life was blushing, stumbling over herself and her words—simply because she had taken the only root from her room to the cafeteria. A few well-meaning chuckles rose from the rest of the class as well.

It was ironic, in a sense. And he looked toward Skepa himself now, silently questioning her confidence, inviting her into the debate at hand. There was, in fact, an open seat beside him. And he vaguely sensed that Master Drid wanted her to stay and partake. It was a fact that piqued his own curiosity. What would this girl, who had no connection to the Force, have to say about it? He was barely able to commune with it himself.

Drid, of course, did not let Don down. "Now calm down, Skepa. Perhaps you'd like to join us." He looked thoughtful for a moment, then his smile grew wider and slightly more devious than it had been. Drid motioned her to a seat between Don and another student. "I think you may be able to add some valuable insight into our talk."

"I'm not so sure," she replied. "What could I know about this sort of thing?"

"Come now. I insist."

He looked down at the human who suddenly found himself patting the cushion beside him in as inviting a gesture as he could manage. Don, though only just aware of it, was sweating furiously and felt hot in his face. Still he managed a wisp of a smile, and that, as it turned out, was enough.

She took the seat beside Don and crossed her legs in a very business-like fashion. "Very well," she said. "I wouldn't want to offend my hosts. What's the topic of the day?"

Again, a devious, but benign smile played across Drid's face as he replied. "We were debating the nature of the Force, and it's moral and philosophical implications."

At once to Don, it seemed as if the well-worded Pantoran was at a loss for words. She was being confronted with an abstract idea that not even the greatest of Jedi Masters could wrap their minds around. As if to compound her utter lack of expertise, all eyes had suddenly focused on her. And judging by the look on her face, it was not just the eyes in the room, but instead a confabulation of all the senses in the galaxy peered down at her, waiting for her to breathe.

But before Don could even think about saying anything, the look passed from her and she smiled a well-trained smile and broke the silence. "Well, master Jedi, as you all know I have no connection this mysterious power that you seem to summon by magic. I hardly know what to think of it." Her eyes flickered from one student to another, gauging them. "But there's a large part of me that has to believe in something beyond myself… That's the case for most people, in fact. Whether it is a god of some sort, an ideal, or the Force, I think it's a vital part of our natures to invest our lives in it."

Drid nodded approvingly. "I agree with you up to a point, Miss Chuchi. But there is a limit to how much you invest yourself into something. Life is about balance. There is a part of our history about a man who invested too much into the Light. He became so obsessed with tradition and the orthodox methods of his successor, that it became almost impossible to live under the restrictions he imposed."

Skepa countered immediately. "But on the other side, there's the case where a man does not invest himself at all. In the case of the Jedi, it would be a terrible lack of enthusiasm that would eventually lead to weak link in the chain. Apathy is a disease that spreads rapidly. It would degrade an organization like this in one generation."

"So life is about balance?" Drid questioned her.

"Balance is a tricky scenario, master Jedi," she said. "Put a candle in the center of a dark room and light it. It brings a warm glow your surroundings, but at the edge of that glow lurk shadows. It's reasonable to assume that those shadows are natural."

This is exactly what Drid had planned, Don realized. Eventually someone would speak up to challenge Skepa's assumptions. The inception of Skepa into the discussion had changed the dynamics very dramatically so that there was no longer a status quo to work with. Normally students would hardly speak up, and just listen to the lecture. But by inviting debate into the classroom, from someone who had a very different view of the Force, Master Drid could poke and prod at students until they were unable to stand it any longer.

Skepa, it seemed had realized this as well and was working toward that end. "One could, by a reasonable extension of that logic, say that not all darkness is bad either. For example, how many of you could sleep in direct sunlight? And who here appreciates the shade of a tree on a hot day? Both are examples of darkness that are beneficial to everyone."

"But we're not talking about trees and shadows!" Someone spoke, exasperated. "This is the Force. And you need light to see by in any case. Your candle in the dark room, what's its purpose?" Skepa took a breath, but the student cut her off again. "It's to see by, isn't it? You need light to see by, to push dark out of the way."

Master Drid looked very pleased with himself. Don could understand why. He had very deftly achieved his goal. But it would collapse, soon, would it not, if someone did not come to the guest's aid? And so far, no one wanted to defend her.

"Um…" Don offered. "I think I can understand what Skepa is saying. If a light, say a star, is too intense, it can blind you can't it? And then everything becomes dark anyway." Now the focus was uncomfortably turned to him. Why did he say anything at all, he wondered. Why did _anyone_ say _anything_ for that matter? Because it needed to be said.

"If you take a source of light, and increase its luminosity, anything that falls in shadow appears black as pitch. So the brighter the light, the deeper the shadow becomes. Mostly because nature works that way. It has to keep a balance."

Skepa was nodding at him now as she took over the debate once more. "Nature has to keep a balance. But if you apply the same principle to everyday life, you'll find that even common decisions have consequences, good and bad, sometimes coupled together. The galaxy isn't black and white, and so the Force can't be either, if it is a part of the natural order."

She sighed, looked up at Master Drid. Don wondered if either of them had said too much. Certainly Don had—he never spoke up at all to answer the open-ended question. But Skepa, who's opinionated, maddening use of analogies and metaphors had opened this can of worms, was quite comfortable now, under the watchful gaze of the universe's perceptions.

And Drid, who was equally comfortable, had a shine in his eyes that Don would only describe as genuine gratitude. "Class," he said, nodding to Skepa. "You have just heard a very unique view of the Force, from a very unique source. Her demonstration and argument should be something for you to meditate on for years to come.

"As she has said, the universe is always struggling to keep a proper balance. Our order, despite devotion to Ashla, is here for no other end than to help keep that balance. Falling to the extremes, to light, dark or even apathy can disrupt that balance and cause blindness to what is right and wrong. Be wary of your choices, and be conscious of the impact you have on the world at large. Class dismissed."

Immediately the students broke out into quiet discussions between pairs or groups of three as the descended upon their rooms to replace inkpots and notebooks. Don stood as well, offering a hand to Skepa, who took it smiling, seemingly very pleased with herself. The padawan could not help but smirk.

Drid approached them then, wearing a contented look. "Thank you, Skepa. It is rare we have visitors, and rarer still that they're able to offer such valuable insight." Again, she blushed, and looked down.

"It's no trouble, sir," she replied.

"Modesty should never be false, my dear," he said, causing her to lift her eyes. Don knew what he meant. Skepa had masterfully played the class; she knew she had, and she should be take pride in her skills. Don agreed whole-heartedly. "We take great pride in the Jedi we send out into the galaxy. Your contribution today illustrated a point we try to teach, but never quite get through to them."

"It _was_ merely an accident that I came upon you, master Jedi," she replied, dropping the pretense of modesty. That was the girl Don had come to know. She was haughty, but in a way that reminded him of Master Bit. She seemed to have the right to be so.

"There are no accidents," Don spoke. Master Drid looked at him, almost as if he had been invisible. Skep only turned her charm on him and asked what he meant. He fumbled for the words and felt like his knees were melting. "It's… ah… not an accident," he said stupidly. "The Force brought you here to us." _To me?_ he thought.

"Ah! Yes," Master Drid agreed. "Don is absolutely right. If you are here with us, it is by the will of the…" He trailed off, a sudden look of concern crossing his rugged features. Then without warning the conference was at an end. Master Drid grabbed his notes and Don bowed to him as he dashed across the courtyard to the faculty dormitory. Don turned to replace his pot and quill, but Skepa grabbed his arm and dragged out as well, inkpot and all, ignoring his protestations that she was spilling ink on his uniform.

* * *

A week had passed since Don's rescue and the teasing from his peers had finally settled down into the background, much to his relief. For him to have been saved by a non-Force sensitive had been a faux pas the likes of which the praxeum had not seen in decades. Now, however, the teasing had retreated to mere snickers every so often when Skepa would enter the room.

However something was quite different this evening, Don noticed. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of people milling about the commons, many wearing the robes of the traditional Jedi order, and some from a few of the satellite communities spread across the galaxy. His peers had also taken notice of the strange visitors. The Jedi, though officially sanctioning the existence of the Order of Saint Elsa, rarely ever visited, except to lodge a formal complaint with the Headmaster.

There was something too dark about this for just another petty complaint about Master Bit's training methods. A dozen masters of as many different species had gathered about, and Done had not seen such a somber tone in his entire life there. Meed met them at the great stained-glass doors to the commons and asked him if they knew anything about the influx.

"I haven't heard anything about it," Don said, trying to recognize faces from the archives. He could pick a few out. The most prominent faces among them were from Dantooine and Coruscant. But what would a master from Coruscant be doing in their corner of the galaxy? He caught sight of Master Drid rushing through the crowds from his office down the hall, anxiety on his face. "I don't know," Don said again. "But it has everyone on edge."

Even Skepa was nervous. He suspected it was for a far different reason than the Masters, however. But, and he looked again at the faces of the Jedi Masters, if it were enough to bring together a conclave, then the students—and especially him—should be in utter terror. Her face was a bastion of calmness, but her eyes darted around from master to master. She did not recognize anyone.

Don certainly did. Master Weid Tungala, from Dantooine, was currently in the midst of a heated discussion with Master Bit. The chubby Ishi Tib waved his arms emphatically, stressing some point which Don could not hear over the din. Close behind was master whom the human had never seen before, but legends accounted for, so that he could pin the name Xand Rusix to the Falleen. Other faces he spotted were from all corners of the galaxy. Illum, Exis, Kel Dor and Arkania all had sent representatives.

The jostling mass of people in the commons forced his mind back to the present. Meed and Skepa had already left him behind, moving toward the back of the room to grab their meals and find a place to sit. Don followed them, barely keeping track of the two in the huge throng. Finally he managed to grab a tray of comestibles and slide, slither or otherwise make way through what seemed the other academy's students as well.

Indeed, that is exactly what it was, Don realized, as several unfamiliar faces sat down next to them. All of them, most likely at Master Bit's behest, wore the gray-blue tunic and trousers of the Elsans, but they were unfamiliar presences. Don could sense the unease growing in them, as if some terrible commencement were at hand.

Then a hush fell over the commons, and as one, wherever they were standing, the crowd took a seat. The collective movement startled Don, and the sound of a single cough in the eerie silence that followed seemed ear-shattering. Master Bit had taken his place at the head table on its raised dais, holding two of his metal claws up to make sure the quiet took. His face was devoid of expression, as always. But even to Don, who always thought he could glimpse the Headmaster's emotions, he felt empty except for a cold resignation for what was to come.

He felt a chill as the Headmaster began to speak. "Students, faculty," he turned to the visiting masters and bowed to those who superseded his authority, "honored guests." There was a brief pause, as if he were collecting his thoughts. "Undoubtedly you have all sensed the tension and anxiety that has permeated our cheerful fellowship. This conclave," and again he gestured to the ranks of robed figures, "has been taking place in secret for five days.

"The dark side is once again threatening to throw to universe out of balance. Children—Force-sensitive children—have been disappearing from throughout the galaxy. There are never witnesses—those who are present have no memory of the abduction. Suddenly, the child is gone. When a Jedi is present, there are no survivors."

Once more he paused, and Don thought he heard the Headmaster sigh. Cold fear welled up within him. Five days of conference would mean he would have sent for the visitors shortly after his encounter with the dark Jedi at the Administration Archives. The two must have been connected. He looked at Meed, and found the same look of comprehension.

"This threat," Master Bit continued, "cannot be ignored. It is the future of the Jedi," and here he looked down, casting a meaningful glance at his students, "and it is the future of the Order of Saint Elsa. We have chosen the brightest and most talented among each of the academies represented here—from Coruscant, all the way to Mynersha—to investigate these disappearances, and if possible to stop them."

His red eyes blinked once, and the massive frame of the droid encased Jedi eased into his chair. Don could not rationalize what he just saw. The announcement had not taken him as much by surprise as he had thought. Investigations, covert wars and secret missions he could handle. But Master Bit was a most powerful Jedi—even the council on Coruscant respected his mastery of the Force. To see him slink down, as if his unyielding, droid body had suddenly transformed into a frail, organic form of equal age was unnerving. Something in it frightened Don more than he could have imagined.

Master Drid took his place. "The commission goes out immediately," he said, somehow igniting a new sort of fervor in Don's fellow students. "We will call your names. When we do, you will be paired up and sent out. Pack only the essentials—the Force will provide the rest…" What emotion had not registered in Bit now took full form in Master Drid. His features, normally wild and untamed, were now solemn and his face grave. "This is more than just a threat to the Jedi Order. This is a threat to the galaxy, and it is a test of your skills and your commitment to keeping the balance."

With that, the Falleen master, Xand, stood and shuffled a handful of papers and began to call out names. His voice was calm and authoritative, even commanding the attention of Master Bit, the most senior member of the conclave. The students remained hushed as one by one, their numbers diminished. It was not long before half of the great room had emptied, leaving mostly younglings and a few nervous padawans left behind.

Then it was with stark realization that Don realized that, as the names were called, Elsans were being paired with other academies' padawans, instead of the familiar and workable relations they were used to. He glanced at Meed, who shared his concern. But as Xand finished his role call, only the two of them were left, with Skepa sitting calmly, shoveling a spoonful of mashed vegetables around her plate.

Don could not decide whether he should be nervous or relieved that he and his companion were left out of the list. There were two things which surrounded the circumstances which put him on edge, two distinct possibilities. Either Master Bit had decided they were not far enough along in their training to send out—which made no sense given their previous assignment. Or there was another assignment specifically for them.

His suspicions were confirmed shortly, as Master Bit, having dismissed the remaining younglings to tend to their exercises, approached the trio with Master Drid in tow. "Drid tells me that you are improving in your combat forms, Don and Meed. But also that your investigative prowess has led to a break in the case of our missing Nokturne."

Don nodded. "Yes, Headmaster. As our report stated, a ship listed under a false name and belonging to the praxeum, departed without a return date around the same time as his disappearance. You have our report, Headmaster."

He brushed aside the capsulation. "Yes. You also encountered several dark Jedi during the course of your investigation. We believe the events are connected to the current crisis, but we could not be sure until now. While there are no witnesses to testify to the disappearances of these children, a lone eye did manage to capture one image of the assailants."

He held out a datapad to Don, who took it and gasped. He handed the datapad to Meed, his hands shaking and his face flushed and sweaty. A lank figure in black robes stood center-stage in the still-image. His most distinguishing figure was facemask, a relic, which anyone in the Order would have recognized as belonging to Master Nokturne of the Gen'dai.

"The image was taken on a planet called Seleucami, less than a week ago," the Headmaster informed them. He took the datapad back and handed to master Drid, who destroyed it immediately. "It is a remote trading post on the Outer Rim. And that _is_ Master Nokturne as well. The child was a Twi'lek male, just old enough to be considered for our order. You," he included Skepa, much to her surprise, "are to go to Seleucami and investigate."

"Only the masters involved in the conclave and the three of you have seen this image," Master Drid spoke. "You are not to share this information with anyone else, and you are to leave immediately. As I told the others, pack only the necessities. The Force will provide the answers you seek and the wisdom to discern them."

* * *

Bit followed them to their quarters in the dormitory, offering snippets of advice to which the two padawans took very seriously. Their role in this had become equally serious, forcing Don's normally lighthearted demeanor to take a drastic turn. He brooded as he packed his robes and clipped his lightsaber to his belt.

Was he really ready for this kind of assignment? Master Bit seemed to think so, but Don was a better judge of his abilities than that. He could hardly focus on his studies after the encounter in the city—it had haunted him. The black forms had appeared out of nowhere, on a deserted street that should have been filled to the breaking point with tourists and shopkeepers. Whoever could have done that was a force to be reckoned with.

He worried it would not be their last encounter. His gut told him that there would be more, and that it would be much more difficult now that they had gauged Don's abilities. They had been fighting aggressively for sure, but they held back. It was not normal behavior, as far as Don knew, for a dark sider to hold back. Someone had trained them exceptionally well in the art of dueling. He still bore the mark where that lightsaber had bitten him.

If only the Headmaster would accompany them. They could use the wisdom of a Master Jedi, if only to keep them from going off on tangents. What were the right questions, what would be the answers? Nokturne had left only the one clue, and no trace of where he was headed next. And that brought him to the next question.

Had _he_ turned to the dark side? What was his involvement if not? The stories passed down from antiquity, and the records in the Archives, told of Nokturne being a powerful Jedi of great fortitude. He could take hits where others would be killed instantly, up to and including total decapitation. If he had turned, whoever faced him would need a miracle to defeat him. But he was also a wise and intelligent leader, according to Bit.

The Headmaster spoke of both the other founders often, but especially of Nokturne, who had been a trusted friend since their own days as padawan learners. What would possess him to turn on the Order he so vehemently defended?

Suddenly he felt his shoulder being shaken, a little roughly, by a cold metal claw. The Headmaster, noticing that he had roused Don out of his trance, ceased his action. Don turned to face him, clearing his throat for an apology. "Do not apologize. Your mind is trying to grasp a problem it does not yet fully comprehend."

Again, Don found himself wishing that the Headmaster would go along. He asked, and Bit replied that he could not. "The Order is in need of me during this crisis," he said. "My place is here. This is a job for young, fresh minds. But rest assured young padawan. If ever you have need, I will be there."

Don smiled, and then started as the Headmaster pulled out his lightsaber and began to disassemble it. The human looked at his senior questioningly, and sensed that the Headmaster was indulging in a patient, but very paternal smile of his own. "I have a gift for you, Don Mi-ow. It will serve to focus your thoughts and grant you insight. You already have a talent for sensing the truth and flow of emotions in others, but this will further enhance that ability. You have a great stake in this endeavor, so you will need every advantage."

He handed a finely cut crystal to the young man. Don was left speechless. Gifts were rare among the Order, especially among the Elsans. Emotional attachment was tolerated well in within the praxeum, but only up to a certain point. For someone to give a gift—especially one as intimate as one's personal focusing crystal—was akin to blasphemy against the Jedi's doctrines.

And from the Headmaster himself? Don had always thought that Bit had taken a special interest in him. He could never understand why though. This only confirmed his theory. He tried to protest, but found the red, unblinking eyes of his Master sapped him of any will to do so. How could he dishonor his Master by refusing such a thing? Instead, all he managed to choke out was a weak "thank you," before the Headmaster turned to leave.

[Fin]


End file.
